


The History of One Volume

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1763, 1853, Bullying, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Old Books, Plutarch's Lives, to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 03:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: When Rachel Hamilton finds an old, battered volume of Plutarch's Lives on the back shelf of a little store in Nevis, she gifts it to her youngest son. The book will see him through loss, war, and pain, before being passed down to one of his own children.





	1. Rachel Hamilton (1763-1768)

**Rachel Faucette Hamilton (1763-1768)**

“It’s a silly waste of money,” James complained behind Rachel as she scrutinized the titles of books for sale on the back shelf of their local store. She ignored him. His last job had brought enough to comfortably afford food and supplies with a little left over. They could afford just one book.

She’d been trying to save up for more than a year, ever since Mrs. Emra had pulled her aside when she was picking Alex up from his lessons one day. “He repeated the whole Decalogue in Hebrew today,” the elderly woman had marveled. “I’ve never seen such a talent for words and languages in one so young.”

The selection of books available was eclectic: a volume on medicine, one collection of poetry, a history of the far east. Alex would probably happily read any of them, but none of them seemed right. At the end of the shelf, she spotted a tattered volume, the title nearly worn away from handling. She pulled the book off the shelf and opened it to the title page. A single volume of Plutarch’s _Lives_. She scanned the rest of the books briefly, looking for any other volumes. Well, they couldn’t afford a set anyway, she consoled herself when she found no others.

“This one,” she told her husband, handing him the worn volume.

James frowned. “It’s been read to death,” he noted. “At least pick one of the newer ones.”

Rachel shook her head. “This one,” she repeated. “He’ll love it.”

James shook his head, turning the book over in his hands, but he stepped over to the counter to make the purchase nonetheless. When he’d finished the transaction, he handed the book back to her. “I still think it was a frivolous use of money,” he said as they made their way back to their little rented cottage.

James was a good man, and Rachel knew he loved Alex dearly. But her baby boy was too cerebral a creature for her very practical husband to understand. He spent much more time with Jamie, building tree forts and teaching him how to shoot.

“It wasn’t frivolous,” she told him firmly. “It’s for his birthday. And, anyway, it was an investment.”

James gave her a skeptical look.

“Our son is going to be a great man.”

~*~

“You need to calm down, sweetheart,” Rachel sighed, dipping a blood soaked rag back into the pink stained water. Alex was crying so hard he couldn’t properly draw breath. His nose was bloody and his temple and eyes were turning black and blue already. His sobs had little to do with the physical injuries, however.

He was clutching his tattered book in his hands—the Plutarch volume she’d purchased more than a year ago. A group of older, local boys had found Alex reading it. Not only had they beaten him for the curiously intellectual behavior, but they’d ripped out pages and stomped it into the mud.

The little bell over the door to their shop jingled. Rachel sighed, pressing a kiss to the eight-year old’s tawny hair, and stepped out to greet their customer. She was surprised to see Jamie standing at the counter, clutching mud-covered papers in his hands.

“I keep telling him not to draw so much attention to himself,” Jamie commented. “It’s bad enough, with Papa gone....”

Rachel closed her eyes briefly to push away her grief. It had been her decision to move the boys back to St. Croix. The longer they stayed here, the more she doubted it had been the right one. James hadn’t been able to get enough work to sustain their family on Nevis, and after a disheartening and difficult winter determined to set off in search of work elsewhere. He’d promised to write, and send money if he could, but Rachel didn’t hold much hope of ever seeing him again. His first stop, however, had been St. Croix. Nevis was so small and lacking in financial and educational opportunities that Rachel determined a move to be to her family’s best advantage. She had relations there, at least, her sister’s family. She and James traveled together with their two boys on the ship back to her nightmarish past. James had kissed her sweetly and paid her a sad, apologetic smile before walking away at the docks. Here in St. Croix, where everyone knew her sordid past, she could no longer pretend to be Mrs. Hamilton, and the boys lost the luxury of assumed legitimacy. She had hoped that the greater opportunities would outweigh the costs, but the longer they stayed here, the more she realized her error.

Jamie laid the dirty, torn pages on the counter. “I thought, maybe, you could fix the book if I found the pages,” he said, addressing the rough wooden floor.

Rachel forced a smile. “That was very thoughtful,” she praised. Jamie glanced up and gave her an uncertain smile in return. She leaned over the counter to kiss his dark hair, then nodded her permission for him to go back outside, as she was sure he was itching to do. He immediately slipped back through the door.

She collected the pages, brushing her hand over them. Perhaps they were salvageable, with some dedicated work, she considered. She stepped back into the store room. Alex was still sitting in the little wooden chair where she’d left him, gazing at his book with hitching breaths, blood dripping steadily from his nose.

“Look what your brother found,” Rachel said, holding up the pages for him to see.

He looked up, his eyes filling with tears at the sight of the ruined pages.

“Hush, sweetheart,” she cooed, crouching down in front him. “We can fix it. We’ll clean off the pages and sew them back inside. It’ll be good as new.” 

“Really?” he asked through another hiccuping breath.

She nodded. If it was the last thing she did, she would fix that book.

~*~

Rachel smiled at the serious, determined expression on Alex’s face as he studied the accounting books for their shop. He was muttering under his breath and moving his finger along the page. What other ten year old would give up precious free time to help balance the books of their parent’s shop, she wondered, gazing fondly at her son.

Alex glanced up at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. “This doesn’t make sense,” he told her.

“What doesn’t, darling?” she asked, coming closer so she could look at the books over his shoulder.

“There’s money missing,” he said. “Here,” he pointed to an entry, then dragged his finger to draw attention to another. “You drew money, but you don’t record buying any product for the shop.”

It was Rachel’s turn to frown. She ought to have known he would notice. If there was one thing her boy knew better than words, it was numbers. “I’m setting that money aside,” she told him, petting his hair.

“We need more inventory,” he said. “You should use it to invest more into the shop.”

“I have something much more important than the shop that I wish to invest in,” she replied.

The little store she’d opened in desperation when she’d first moved to St. Croix was beginning to turn a healthy profit. They were hardly wealthy, but they could live comfortably. At first, she’d used any excess to buy more books to satisfy Alex’s growing curiosity. Poetry by Alexander Pope, Machiavelli’s _The Prince_ , and various religious texts now dotted the shelves of their cramped living quarters. As she watched her son devour the texts, she slowly realized he needed so much more than what she could give him on this little island.

If she was very careful, if she saved every shilling, she might just be able to send her brilliant child to the school he deserved, far away from this miserable backwater.

“What could be more important than the shop?” Alex asked her.

She beamed down at him, and said simply, “You.”

Alex gave her such an utterly perplexed look that she laughed. “I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep, my darling boy, but I’m hoping to set enough aside to send you to school.”

“School?” he repeated. He said the word with remarkable reverence, as though repeating something from the gospel.

She nodded. “A good school, somewhere far away from here. Perhaps New York.” Mr. Beekman and Mr. Cruger, the suppliers for her store, both had strong connections to New York society. If she had enough to pay, they might be willing to quarter Alex and give him proper introductions.

His eyes grew wide, staring back down at the shop books with absolute wonder.

“You’ve been blessed by God with a great mind,” she told him seriously. “You’re going to do great things, Alexander. Amazing things. Just like the men in that book you hold so dear. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”


	2. Alexander Hamilton (1768-1804)

**Alexander Hamilton (1768-1804)**

 

Alex sat on the sparse mattress in the dusty, claustrophobic room with his legs pulled up to his chest and his chin resting on his knees. James had just begun his apprenticeship with the local carpenter, leaving Alex alone in the strange house with Cousin Peter. He knew he should be grateful. With Mama gone, had it not been for Cousin Peter, he and James might have been living on the streets.

Still, Peter Lytton was an odd man. He lived openly with his mulatto mistress, a kind, if equally eccentric woman named Ledja. Peter’s moods were utterly unpredictable. Sometimes, he would be laughing, happy, nearly exhausting in his energy and enthusiasm for life. Then would come the dark, melancholy days, where he would sit motionless in the sitting room, if he emerged from his bedroom at all.

So Alex had taken to sitting in his room, letting his imagination carry him far away from the misery his life had become. He missed his mother desperately. He missed their little shop, all his toys and mementos, and, most of all, his books. He longed for his books. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the sound of Mama’s voice as she read to him about the great statesmen of old.

He found himself hating the judge who’d decided that Mama’s estate—all her, his, and Jamie’s possessions, along with all her money—should be awarded to her one legitimate son, Peter Levine. How could a man whose kind heart had moved him to donate money so that James could buy new shoes, and they could both have black veils for the funeral, make such a heartless, cold decision? From the little he knew of his half-brother, Levine was well established in South Carolina society. He hardly had need of that money. And yet, he had sailed down to St. Croix to collect it. The auction to liquidate all their assets was happening today, last he’d heard.

 Footsteps on the creaky steps drew him from his thoughts. He looked up as his Uncle James stepped into his open doorway. The old man smiled down at him kindly.

“How are you, my boy?” Uncle James asked, giving him a scrutinizing look.

“I’m well, thank you, sir,” he said politely.

Uncle James hummed lightly. “Well, I have a surprise for you, if you’d come downstairs with me.”

A surprise?

“Come on, then,” Uncle James added, waving his hand impatiently.

Alex scrambled to his feet and trailed his uncle downstairs. He froze on the bottom step, staring at the large crate in the middle of the sitting room. The top had been pried off so that Alex could just make out the spines of books neatly stacked inside.

“There wasn’t much demand for books at the auction,” Uncle James said. “I got them all for a pittance. I thought you should have them.”

“All?” Alex repeated, hardly daring to believe.

Uncle James smiled softly at him. “All thirty-four volumes from your Mama’s library.”

Alex felt his lower lip quivering at this glorious show of generosity. He surged forward, attacking his uncle with a firm embrace. “Thank you,” he whispered into his uncle’s silky waistcoat.

“Glad to do it, my boy,” Uncle James assured him, patting his back affectionately.

He looked down into the crate, filled with his familiar friends. He dug quickly, rearranging the volumes until he laid eyes on the tattered, worn cover. Snatching the book, he hugged it close, like a young child with a favorite play thing. He’d never, ever let it out of his sight again, he promised.

~*~

Mr. Mulligan gave Alex a warm reception on his first night in New York, welcoming him into his home like a long-lost family member. The Mulligan’s table had been filled with more food for one meal than he had ever seen at once in his life. After dinner, Mr. Mulligan’s brother called and the family sat in a lavishly furnished parlor around a roaring fire, laughing and discussing the news of the day. Alex quickly composed a comic poem to amuse his host, and the verse made Mr. Mulligan laugh so hard wine had come out of his nose.

When Mr. Mulligan’s brother had left  and the excitement and wonder of his new surroundings had begun to die down, Alex felt exhaustion overwhelm him so thoroughly that he’d nearly fallen asleep in the comfortable armchair of the Mulligan’s parlor.

“Hercules,” he vaguely heard Mrs. Mulligan whisper.

“Of course, my dear,” Mr. Mulligan replied softly. A large, warm hand suddenly settled on his shoulder, jarring him back to full consciousness. “Come on, my boy. Let’s get you up to bed.”

Mr. Mulligan herded him up the stairs into a guest bedroom. A warm quilt covered the bed, visible with the beautifully decorated bed curtains drawn back. “Your things are all still in your trunk there by the bed,” Mr. Mulligan told him. “You have a good night, son. Let me know if you need anything.”

Alex changed for bed in something of a stupor. However, when he’d crawled into the soft bedding, even though his eyes ached with exhaustion, sleep eluded him. He laid on his back, staring at the canopy above him. He didn’t miss St. Croix, really, but this opportunity to study in New York had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that he now found himself reeling, struggling to wrap his mind around the possibilities that might be before him.

He sat up and lit the candle by the bed, then padded over to his trunk. He pushed aside his clothing, rifling through all his worldly possessions until he laid hands on his worn copy of Plutarch. He gripped the book tightly as he made his way back to bed. 

The rest of Mama’s library was too heavy to carry with him on the ship. Mr. Stevens promised to take good care of the volumes Uncle James had gifted him. This book, though, the first Mama had ever given him, was much too special to leave behind.

Opening the book to the first page of the life of Coriolanus, he squinted in the dim light to make out the familiar words. “ _His example shows us that the loss of a father, even though it may impose other disadvantages on a boy, does not prevent him from living a virtuous or a distinguished life, and that it is only worthless men who seek to excuse the deterioration of their character by pleading neglect in their early years._ ”*

He remembers Mama’s voice reading him that passage. Her voice had taken on a heavy significance after Papa had left them, her eyes often leaving the page to bore into his own. “I won’t let you down, Mama,” he whispered into the dark. He would do great things, just like she had said.

~*~

Alexander shivered as he opened his trunk in search of a dry uniform. The inadvertent swim in the Schuylkill under enemy fire had left him sore, exhausted, and dripping wet. He’d quickly made his report to General Washington and hurried upstairs to the aide’s quarters to change. He only hoped he wouldn’t catch cold.

The trunk was a mess, he noted immediately, everything displaced, as though someone had rifled through the contents. He hated to accuse any of his fellow officers of such a thing, but clearly someone had gone through his things. After pulling out some dry clothes, he looked through his belongings, taking a quick inventory to see if anything important was missing.

His money and valuables were all accounted for, but his eyes widened as he noticed the absence of one item. His first copy of Plutarch, the one Mama had gifted him for his seventh birthday, was nowhere to be found. Why would anyone go through his trunk just to steal his book? It must be in there, somewhere, he told himself, frantically shoving things aside in his search.

“Have you lost something, _mon ami_?” Lafayette’s voice queried from the doorway.

Alexander looked up with wide eyes. “My book. It’s missing,” he admitted at last.

“No, it’s not,” Laurens said, stepping around Lafayette to enter the room.

Alexander watched in shock as his dearest friend pulled open his own trunk and pulled out the tattered volume. Taking the book from his Laurens’ hands, he asked softly, “Why did you take it?”

“You told me how much it means to you,” Laurens said. “When…when Lee sent that letter, saying you had died….” His voice trailed off, and he swallowed thickly, clearly still effected by the false news. He forced a smile and finally continued, “I just couldn’t let that book go off to God knows where.”

A wave of affection overcame Alexander, and he stood to engulf Laurens in an embrace. Laurens held him tightly, squeezing him close before slapping his back twice and easing away. Looking at Laurens after they pulled apart, Alexander suddenly remembered that he was dripping wet. Laurens’ shirt and uniform jacket were now damp as well.

“Sorry,” Alexander said with a sheepish smile.

“A bit of damp is a small price to seeing you alive and well, my dear Hammy,” Laurens assured him with a grin.

“Yes, we are all very glad you are alive. Now change out of that wet uniform, before you catch your death of cold,” Lafayette ordered, still standing in the doorway.

Alexander laughed, smiling fondly at his friend’s mothering, and placed the book carefully back into his trunk before gladly obeying the command.

~*~

“Ow,” Alexander muttered as his elbow connected hard with a door frame.

“Sorry,” Eliza replied. She was standing behind him, her arms resting on his shoulders and her hands folded over his eyes. “Doorway.”

“I gathered,” he said with a chuckle.

“Just a few more steps,” she encouraged him. “No peeking.”

He obeyed, though he placed his hands out in front of him, his trust in her direction fading rapidly. Her hands finally lifted from over his eyes. “Surprise!”

“It’s a crate,” he said flatly. They were still in process of moving in to the rented townhouse in New York City, their first home as a married couple. Boxes and crates littered every room, so the new addition hardly seemed exciting. Certainly nothing to make him walk blindly through the halls to avoid seeing.

Eliza’s arms had dropped down to embrace his torso, and she squeezed him gently. “Look inside, silly,” she laughed. “It’s a present.”

He craned his head back to look at her. She was grinning with anticipation. Laying his hand over hers, he pulled it to his lips, then extracted himself from her arms to kneel beside the crate. It had already been pried open, the top sitting loose to cover the contents. He pushed it aside to examine the contents. He stared, not quite comprehending what he was seeing.

“I wrote to Mr. Stevens in St. Croix after you told me the story of your book,” Eliza said behind him.

He’d told her about the sentimental value of his volume of Plutarch after she’d purchased him a new copy for his birthday, more than half a year ago, now. The stories of being bullied for his bookish tendencies and watching his mother sew the mangled pages back inside had poured out of him, things he’d only ever told to Laurens. Eliza had been loving and understanding, as she always was, and he’d thought that had been the end of it.

Eliza was still speaking behind him. “I thought you’d like to have the whole collection again, now that you have your own study. He was very happy to comply. Alexander?”

He was frozen, staring at the titles in front of him, thirty three in all. They were all here. All his mother’s books had been miraculously returned to him once more.

Eliza’s hand touched his shoulder. “Honey? Are you all right?” Her thumb brushed over his cheek lightly, and only then did he notice that he’d started crying at some point.

He didn’t know what to say. Pulling in a deep breath, he leaned forward and kissed her firmly. “Thank you,” he settled on. “Thank you so much.”

She smiled again. “Shall I help you put them on the shelves?”

He nodded, still a little dazed with shock at the touching gesture from his perfect wife. With Eliza’s help, the shabby volumes were all arranged on the shelf in short order. Once they had all been unpacked, she retrieved the Plutarch volume from his desk and stroked her hand over the worn cover tenderly before placing it on the shelf as well.

“There,” she said with a nod.

He examined the mementos of his childhood, marveling at how much his life had changed in the years since he’d last seen them. His eyes tracked to his wife, standing at his side. Sweeping her into his arms, he kissed her passionately. “Have you any idea how much I love you?” he asked, pushing a stray dark curl from her face.

She gave him a coy smile. “I don’t believe I do.”

“No?” he asked.

She wrinkled her nose a touch, looking impossibly adorable as she did so. “No. You shall have to show me.”

He tipped his face down to kiss her again, more than happy to comply.

~*~

Alexander nicked his finger as he cut the string to the proper length. He hissed and placed the finger to his mouth, shaking out his hand before he tied the string around the brown paper covering the volume of Plutarch his Mama had given him four decades ago. At last, he’d made a decision as to whom he would pass the book on.

Originally, he’d intended the book to go to his first born. Philip had shown an unfortunate penchant for losing books, however, and he’d delayed the gift, until it was no longer possible to hand anything down to his precious boy. He closed his eyes, fighting the wave of grief that always threatened to sweep him under when his thoughts turned to his beloved child.

Alex had been his next thought. The boy was sweet, loyal, and organized enough not to misplace the volume. In fact, for a time, he’d been seriously considering giving it to his next eldest boy. It wasn’t until this last week that he’d made his final decision. He’d been passing by his study late one night to find Johnny standing by the bookshelf, absently stroking the spine of a book as he read over the titles of the others. He’d smiled. His sweet, unassuming John had loved books for nearly as long as he’d been alive. He’d be the one not only to hold on to the volume, but to care for it, the way it should be cared for.

The hallway outside his study was bustling with activity as his children prepared for bed. With his packaging now complete, he stuck his head out of the door and spotted John just about to enter the boys’ bedroom.

“Johnny, come here a moment,” he called.

John looked at him, startled. He came hurrying over with a look of pure panic. Alexander could practically see the thoughts on his twelve-year-old’s face, wondering frantically what he’d done wrong.

“Relax, son,” he said with a smile. “I just want to give you something.”

John took the wrapped book with a furrowed brow. “Why?” he asked. “It’s not my birthday.”

“I know it’s not your birthday,” Alexander laughed. “It’s just something I want you to have.”

John slowly pulled away the string and pulled the book from the paper. He examined the spine, then flipped open the book to examine the title page. “You have the complete set of Plutarch’s _Lives_ ,” John told him. “I’ve seen them in your study.”

“This one is special,” he explained. “My Mama gave that to me for my seventh birthday. It was the first book I ever owned. It’s seen me through a great deal in my life.”

John’s eyes widened as he touched the pages with renewed reverence. “And you’re giving it to me?”

Alexander nodded. “But you must promise me that you’ll take very special care of it.”

“I promise, Papa,” John said solemnly.

Alexander pulled the boy close in an embrace and kissed the top of his head.

“Good night, Papa,” John added, giving him a last squeeze before pulling away.

“Good night, son,” he wished. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He prayed that God would not make a liar of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * From Plutarch, Makers of Rome: Nine Lives By Plutarch, Penguin Classics ed., Ian Scott-Kilvert, trans., p. 15.


	3. John Church Hamilton (1853)

**John Church Hamilton (1853)**

 

Somehow, the job of writing his father’s biography had been left up to him.

His little sister just didn’t seem to appreciate what a monumental task that truly was. “You’re the only one who can do it. And you need to do it quickly. Mama won't live forever,” Eliza harangued him in a whisper as she served him tea in the comfortable parlor of her Washington residence.

His mother was sitting on the porch outside with some embroidery. She’d gone so deaf that Eliza could have spoken at full voice with her in the same room, and he doubted she would have heard them. Even so, he too spoke at a whisper when he answered. “I’m trying, Lizzy. It’s just…difficult.”

 “It means so much to her, John,” Eliza added.

“It means a great deal to me, as well. Writing about Papa…it isn’t easy for me.”

Over time, the overwhelming grief had ebbed for him. Remembering his father brought a smile to his face most days. The bright memories of Papa’s warmth and love chased the shadow of his loss.

Papa’s absence had been a presence in their family for a very long time now: an empty place at the head of their dinner table, a missing voice in a family sing-along, a vacant, silent study containing only dusty legal books and blank paper. He forgets sometimes that for Philip and Eliza, that empty space was all they’d ever known. They didn’t remember Sunday mornings watching Papa read the paper by the fireplace, or listening to him tell thrilling stories about the Revolution, or racing him through the garden, laughing so hard that everyone fell down.

His sister’s eyes softened. She had vague memories of their father, a smile, a laugh, bouncing on his knee, but she’d been too young when he died to appreciate the magnitude of the loss. Her allegiance is to their mother alone. As much as John does not wish to disappoint his aging mother either, his desire to finish the book for her does nothing to diminish the pain of reconstructing a life stolen too soon.  Eliza seemed at least to understand his struggle, even if she did not share it. They lapsed into a comfortable silence as they sip at their tea.

After finishing his tea, he gathered his bag and made his way to the room filled with the carefully kept pages of his father’s life. He’d brought some documents home with him a few days ago. As he settled at the desk, he reached into his bag to retrieve the letter Papa had written to his friend, Ned Stevens, at the tender age of twelve.

His fingers brushed a worn binding as he searched for the document. He grasped at the book instead. It’s the Plutarch volume, his father’s last gift to him the night before the duel. He doesn’t know why he brought it with him today.

His memory flashed suddenly to his father’s study, unwrapping a brown paper package to find the tattered book. He remembered the story now, brief though it may have been. He pictures a boy of seven, reading about the statesmen of Greece and Rome, not knowing that he would someday ascend to the pantheon of great American statesmen.

He smiled as he opened his notebook and began to write.

Gentle tapping of a cane announced his mother’s approach. The persistent rain of the past week must have made her knees sore; even at ninety-six, she doesn’t use the cane all the time.  He hadn’t shut the door all the way, and she pushed it fully open as she entered. Her silvery hair was hidden beneath her quaint cap, and she wore a black gown, just as she had every other day for the past forty-nine years. John smiled at her.

“Hello, Mama,” he greeted, making sure to raise his voice so she can hear him.

She startled a little, raising a hand to her breast at the sight of him. “Johnny,” she whispered. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

“I’m working on Papa’s book,” he explained. “Did you need anything? Would you like me to pull some of the papers out for you?”

She shook her head a little, her eyes turning back to the shelves teeming with Papa’s papers.  “No, dear. I just like to sit in here with my embroidery when the damp outside gets too much. I like the smell of the paper and ink. Papa always used to write while I sewed, you know.”

He pushed back from the desk. “I’ll just bring these home with me,” he said quickly. “Let me pack up and I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she replied, waving him back into his seat. “I can sew anywhere. Don’t let me interrupt your work.”

“If you’re sure.” He took his seat again tentatively.

“What is that you’re reading?” she asked, squinting at the worn book open before him.

“Papa’s book. Plutarch’s _Lives_. I brought it as…inspiration, I suppose.”

Mama inhaled sharply, surprised. “I haven’t seen that in a very long time. Might I hold it a moment?”

He happily acquiesced, snapping the book closed and handing it over. Mama leaned her cane against the desk to hold the book with both hands. She didn’t open it, just caressed the cover tenderly. After gazing at it for a few silent moments, she brought the book to her lips, kissing it with the same love and affection he associated with kisses to his forehead when he’d been sick with fever as a tiny child.

“Thank you,” she whispered as she gently set the volume back on the desk.

The longing on his mother’s face made his chest feel tight. “Would you like to keep it with you, Mama? I don’t mind.”

“No,” she answered. “Papa wanted you to have it.”

“But you could keep for a little while, if it makes you feel closer to him,” John urged.

 “I don’t need a book to feel close to him, sweetheart. I carry him with me always.” She laid her hand against her heart as she spoke. With a warm smile, she nodded to his open notebook. “Back to work with you.”

He turned the book over in his hands as he listened to the gentle tap of his mother’s cane retreating down the hallway. He wondered if his grandmother had any notion of the journey this battered book would take when she’d purchased it. Had she known the love and value her son would place on it? How that love would still touch those he left behind long after he died? Had she known that nearly a century later, her grandson would be deciding which of his own children would inherit the beloved volume?

Placing the book before him, he picked up his pen and continued to write his father’s remarkable story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if anyone will catch this, but when Eliza's touching her heart as she talks about carrying Hamilton with her, she's also touching the pouch she wears with Ham's love poem and farewell letter. John wouldn't know about that yet, though. (My goodness, those two break my heart.)

**Author's Note:**

> According the Chernow, at least some volumes of Plutarch's Lives made up the collection of thirty-four books Rachel owned. Ham's Uncle really did purchase the books back from the estate for him, as well. I'm not sure if Ham really took any of those books with him to America, but I thought it would be sweet to track a single book traveling with him throughout his life and ultimately being handed down to one of his sons. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and feedback is always appreciated!


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